


Whispered Secrets

by Soaring_Ren (Robin_Knight)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Knight/pseuds/Soaring_Ren
Summary: Lance was gone.Keith knew that agony all too well; he knew what it was like to lose a lover, as well as the enduring pain that lingered. He found a kindred spirit in Coran, and he hoped that together they would find an end to their pain.





	Whispered Secrets

_‘_ _Come on in!’_

Keith opened the door. The office inside was unlike any other; most teachers – such as Shiro – had what was termed an ‘organised mess’, but this space was so neat that it almost looked like a showroom or a scene from a movie. There were shelves all along the far wall, with books perfectly aligned and ordered, and various ornaments were used sparingly to add some decoration and add to the elegance of the décor. A model of the galaxy sat upon the desk.

It was a gift from Allura, rumour held. The young professor was like a daughter to Coran, so that he displayed every gift ever bestowed upon him, and – when Keith looked closer – he saw framed photographs of Allura throughout childhood into adulthood. They were spread in a beautiful pattern about the desktop, where they surrounded a state-of-the-art laptop and gave some personalisation to the professional office. Keith spotted a few finger paintings on another wall, framed beside incredibly talented landscapes, and he gnawed upon his lip.

“Ah, Keith, my boy! Good to see you.”

Keith jumped and clutched his papers to his chest. He looked over to the window. Coran perched upon the ledge with a cup of tea and a saucer in his hand, and as he smiled – in a way that bristled his moustache – a small splatter of tea spilled over the side. He wore a white-and-blue uniform, which emphasised a body almost in its prime, and Keith swallowed hard to think about how Coran must have looked in his youth. There were photographs in Allura’s office of a muscular man, one that could put Shiro to shame. Keith fought a blush.

“Hey, Coran,” said Keith. “I’m here about my essay.”

“Ah, yes, I thought you might be.” Coran leaned over and placed his tea on the desk. “I may have heard a _teensy_ bit of gossip about academic probation, and – well – I must say I’m a little surprised! You were getting straight A’s in every class, Keith. I saw how passionate you were about your studies, lad, and you worked hard to be here. What happened?”

“Shiro disappeared, that’s what happened.” Keith blinked rapidly and shrugged. “Look, I know I’ve messed up, but I’ve been working hard over the weekend to catch up on what I missed. I don’t want to be the prodigy that flunked out. I just need a second chance.”

“Well, if it’s okay with Iverson, I’m happy to have you back.”

“Thanks, so I can hand this in then?”

Keith extended the papers to Coran. They sat sheathed in a brown folder, which held the titles to every essay missed within the past fortnight, and – as Coran came forward to take them from him – he realised that his sleeve had rolled upward. It was only an inch, barely anything in the scheme of things, but he carefully turned over his hand. The inside of his wrist was now out of sight, along with the palm of his hand. His heart raced with panic.

There was a strange scent in the air; Keith looked around for distraction, as Coran came closer still, and saw the incense burner upon the windowsill. The open window also brought in a scent of flowers and freshly cut grass, as well as a light breeze that cooled his warm flesh and grounded him in the moment, and Keith drew in a deep breath. Coran came around the desk and took the folder into his hands, as he gave that typical smile in return. The redheaded man opened the folder and looked down at the papers, as he hummed a light tune.

Keith sighed. He dropped his hand by his side, while he looked between Coran and the door. It was difficult to still his racing heart, while his mouth ran dry and eyes threatened to water, and he continuously bit upon his cheek to distract himself. The taste of iron grounded him. It served as a reminder of the present, as he listened to the pages being flicked over with a rustle of movement and occasional crinkles as the corners were folded.

“Ah, this looks very good,” chirped Coran.

The older man clapped a hand on his back, before he placed the papers upon the desk. Keith froze at the touch; he fought back the urge to rub at his shoulder, as he remembered Shiro’s words on how touch was a common expression among people, and how it was rude to wipe away at the place touched, but the memory of Shiro only added to his anxiety. He clenched and unclenched his hands, while he focussed his eyes upon the carpet of the office, and dreaded the inevitable moment when someone said Shiro’s name aloud.

“Can I – Can I go?” Keith asked.

Coran’s expression fell. He came back around, where he touched upon Keith’s shoulder, and – once again – Keith tensed to the point that Coran was forced to remove his hand. The silence between them was awkward; Keith focussed on the sounds of the birds outside, which tweeted off-key in a strange rhythm, and he tried to ignore the sound of his pulse that echoed within his ears. Coran knelt slightly, just enough to look Keith in his eyes.

“I – er – know about your wrists,” whispered Coran.

“Iverson told you that? I thought that –”

“No, I saw your wrists, Keith.”

The room fell cold, as Keith crossed his arms. There was a faint sting upon his wrist from the pressure; he held them tight against his chest, and stared at a distant spot where a photograph of Coran with a young man and infant took pride of place upon the wall. It brought back memories of Shiro’s framed photograph upon his dorm wall, along with the cold realisation that they would never have children of their own, and he drew in a staggered breath. The anger rose and brought a strong adrenaline rush, as he clenched his fists. Coran said:

“Here, take my card.”

Keith jumped in surprise. He looked to see a business card held before him, which he took with a firm hold and a furrow of his brow. It was suspicious; news of Keith’s failing grades and sporadic outbursts of anger were common knowledge, so much so that Iverson only allowed him probation from the skin of his teeth, and he wondered why anyone would willingly try to help him. Keith turned the card over to look at it and asked:

“What’s this?”

“It’s my home address,” said Coran. “I’ve a few weeks to myself. I’ve an open-door policy, and my son is always asleep by no later than seven, so you’re more than welcome to pop around! We can talk about what’s upsetting you, and maybe – ah – find a solution to help. You’re not alone, Keith, and Shiro wouldn’t want you to be alone”

Keith scrunched his eyes shut. The name brought back too many memories; he could hear the news of Shiro’s assumed death like he was hearing it all over again, while the few possessions in his office were removed while Keith was off-premises, and the absence in his heart – a gaping and empty wound unlike any other – bore an immense pain that he knew would never be healed. Keith blinked away tears, as he slid the card into his back pocket. It was the first real offer of help from anyone. He smiled in a broken manner.

“Thank you, Coran.”

* * *

Keith looked at the framed photographs.

They lined the walls of the lounge like a collage; most were off Coran’s son, who was just seven-months old, and looked surprisingly like his other father. Coran mentioned how they used a surrogate, so that the child was biologically that of his partner, and it showed down to the smallest of resemblances. The small infant shared the same dark brown skin of its father, while his eyes were a shining blue that pierced the glass of the frame. He was cute.

The husband held a vaguely attractive appearance. He looked very much like a student in the university that Keith saw around on occasion, but rumour had it that he transferred once beginning a relationship with a professor, and Keith half-smiled to finally have a face to put to student gossip. The young man must have been the same age as Keith, perhaps around twenty-one, and already he was married with a son. It was enviable how he juggled a domestic life with the life of a student. Keith felt a stab of jealousy, as he folded his arms.

He turned to look about the lounge, as he admired the large home. Coran sat upon a leather sofa, where a bottle of wine stood in a chilled bucket upon an expensive coffee table, and – as Keith watched a small bead of liquid run down the side – he realised that the very name of the wine was something unpronounceable to him. He was almost embarrassed of his shack and oil-stained clothes, as he looked around in genuine curiosity. Keith asked:

“Is your husband home?”

Coran paused with his hand midway to the bottle. He quirked a lip into a half-smile, which caused the lines around his eyes to deepen, and took the bottle in hand to pour into two long-stems glasses that looked more expensive than the entirety of Keith’s wardrobe. The liquid was off-white, with a familiar scent, and Coran slid one glass in Keith’s direction ready for him to claim in his time. The other glass was taken in white-gloved hands, where Coran drew in a deep sniff and swirled the contents just under his nose.

“He – er – isn’t with us,” muttered Coran.

Keith flinched, as he walked over to the couch. The cushions gave a squeak as he sat beside Coran, and the glass was cool to the touch as he took it into his hands. He held the glass loosely between his spread legs, as he hunched over and looked down at the floor, and he felt a stab of guilt and sympathy in response to the news. It was impossible to look at Coran. He knew all too well what the pain of losing a love, so much so that nothing else compared.

“I’m sorry,” said Keith.

“No, it’s quite alright!” Coran smiled and patted his back. “Why don’t you take a second to relax, eh? I’m quite curious about why you’ve been hurting yourself. Now, I’m not counsellor, but I’m more than happy to listen to anything you have to say, so why don’t we start from the beginning with all this? What made you cut yourself? It must hurt.”

“I guess it grounds me.” Keith took a swig from the glass, as he shrugged. “I – I have all this anger and this sadness, but Shiro was the _only_ person I could talk to about it. He’s gone. Now there’s this grief and this emptiness, and . . . I don’t know . . . it’s hard.”

“Hmm, I used to know a lass that self-harmed. We had a wee chat about it; turned out that she was trying to punish herself, thought that she needed to hurt to make up for past sins, and I never quite got that . . . another lad said he felt numb, so burning his arms was the only way to feel _something_ , to remind himself he was alive. Oh, it’s hard, but you’re not alone! I swear we must have at least one student every year who comes to our attention.”

“They – They keep telling me how to cope with it, but . . .”

Keith rolled back the sleeve of his black top, one that was bought to look similar to Shiro’s, and – as much as he was loath to admit it – it always made him feel a little closer to his lost lover, especially when he couldn’t publicly grieve as anything other than a friend. He took another swig from the glass, noticing the quirked eyebrow that Coran gave in response, and he blushed and looked away feeling the alcohol work its way into his system. There was a photograph upon the table of Coran with his deceased husband and child. Keith continued:

“There’s elastic bands, or ice cubes, or red pens, or –!”

He sighed. There was a stray toy just underneath the table; it looked like a blue lion, something poorly designed and clearly homemade, and yet there was great love in the stuffed plush toy, which made Keith smile to himself. He downed the rest of his glass and placed it firmly on the table, as he threw himself backward and looked up at the ceiling. There was a mural of stars from the night-sky, something accurate and beautiful.

“It doesn’t work,” muttered Keith.

“Everyone has different coping mechanisms.” Coran edged a little closer, as he put a hand on Keith’s knee and squeezed. “Those kinds of techniques are distractions; it’s like putting a plaster on the problem, but it doesn’t get rid of the problem. You tried therapy?”

“I wouldn’t really feel right talking to a stranger.” He looked to his scarred wrist. “It’s too intimate to talk about to someone who’s paid to judge me, but I don’t really have any friends apart from Shiro and he’s gone. My – My pops ran out when I was still a teenager, so I was left alone and had to work-part time as a mechanic to pay my way, and I never really got over that either. He just left me, you know? I wasn’t even wanted.”

“Well, I know that _I_ want you here. Try not to judge yourself through others eyes, eh? If your pops were a bad man, it shouldn’t matter what he thinks about you. If your pops were a good man, he’d have good reasons for having left that don’t reflect on you. You should see yourself through your own set of eyes. I know I like what I see.”

“You have to say that, as my tutor. You have to be nice.”

“No, I only have to be nice during office hours.”

Coran nudged him in his side. It was a playful gesture, which struck Keith almost like the people he saw in the hallways, and he realised the gesture for what it was: a symbol of friendship. He rarely ever found a place to belong, but here was someone who knew what it was like to lose a loved one and also held a connection – however tenuous – to Shiro. Coran had worked alongside the white-haired man, speaking to him on a daily basis and sharing teaching stories in the staff room, and it was almost like Shiro was still with him.

“Let me be the friend you talk to,” said Coran.

Keith looked to the photograph on the table; it was strange to look into the face of the young male and know he was no longer with them, but to see how he would have been in life. He had been an immigrant, too, just like Shiro . . . one from Cuba, another from Japan . . . Keith felt tears begin to form in his eyes, as his lip trembled and breath left him. He wondered whether he could trust Coran. Finally, there was someone who understood him.

Keith smiled.

* * *

“Shiro and I were dating,” admitted Keith.

He looked out over the balcony with a smile. The sun was bright in the sky, while Coran’s son giggled from upon his hip, and – when Keith turned to look upon him – he saw how much the young infant loved and adored his father. Those rosy cheeks would brighten every time Coran smiled, while blue eyes would widen each time he was thrown in the air, and it was heart breaking to think how Lance would never watch his son grow into a man.

The view from the balcony overlooked the gardens beyond, but the balcony itself held an interesting quirk of circling around the back of the house. It was possible to walk to either Coran’s bedroom or the master bathroom from the nursery where they stood, as all three rooms held beautiful French doors that opened up onto the scene of nature beyond, and Keith almost envied the small boy for growing up in such a luxurious environment. He leaned against the stone railing, as the breeze blew through his black locks of hair.

Coran leaned back against the railing, but faced into the nursery. The boy was too energetic and struggled too much in his hold, something that likely made him reluctant to hold him facing outward, and – even as Coran looked pensive in thought – his moment of seriousness was ruined by the way two chubby hands tugged at the ends of his moustache with great laughter only possible from an innocent child. Coran asked in a quiet voice:

“Did Iverson know?”

Keith sighed and shrugged. The gardens below were filled with a multitude of flowers and trees, something that he knew Shiro would love, and he felt a stab of guilt at being in such a place without his lover by his side. He ran his fingers through his hair, while he looked back into the nursery at the constant reminders of Lance’s existence, and he knew that Coran likely understood what it was like to live in the shadow of death. A brown jacket of Lance’s hung on a rocking chair, still yet untouched, while beauty cream sat on a side-table

“No,” said Keith. “Shiro would have lost his job.”

“So you kept it secret.”

“We didn’t have any choice.” Keith turned and smiled at Coran. “I always struggled with my autism, not to mention with my abandonment issues, and then Shiro wanted to go abroad and it _killed_ me inside to have him leave me even on a temporary basis. I – I always thought he would come back, but then he left just like everyone else. Everyone always leaves.”

“I’ll never leave you, Keith. I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but I know little Michael has grown attached to you, too. It’s not the same, and we can never replace what Shiro gave to you, but we _are_ here for you every step of the way.”

“That means a lot, honestly. I just wish it was enough.”

Coran smiled. He looked to him with half-lidded eyes, while he struggled to keep a hold of his son, and as Keith watched them – awestruck by the closeness between father and son – he felt a sense of gratitude that Coran’s hands were occupied with the infant. Keith trusted the older man, enough that he instinctively leaned into his space, but it would take some more time to get used to the touches and intimacy between them. The baby yawned and sucked at its closed fist, as it finally began to settle against Coran’s chest.

“How do you cope?” Keith asked. “With the death, I mean.”

They stood in a comfortable silence, while Coran slowly bounced his son with rhythmic pats to his back, and – as he looked down at his son – he smiled warmly and made soothing noises so that his small boy was lulled into a sleep. Keith reached out and hesitated. He let his hand freeze midair, afraid to touch the sleeping child, but he soon brushed back a lock of brown hair and smiled to know he had made a connection. He whispered again:

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Keith, I know what it’s like to miss someone . . . I’ve missed Lance every day since he’s gone. It hurts more than I can put into words, but I _know_ I will see him again one day, and – well – that’s enough for me to keep going and to be strong. Shiro wouldn’t want you to be sad, my boy! He would want you to move on and find happiness.”

“What if – What if I find happiness with someone else?”

“Love is never mutually exclusive.”

Coran leaned into his space. Keith felt his heartbeat quicken, as he drew in a sharp breath, and – as he finally felt alive for the first time since Shiro’s disappearance – Coran placed a semi-chaste kiss to his cheek. It lingered, just enough for him to feel the bristles of his moustache against his skin. Keith blushed. He turned to face Coran, while he licked at his lips and ran a hand over the back of his neck, and he flushed red with the intimacy that reminded him so much of his lost love and hope for his future. Coran said in a quiet voice:

“I know my love for you won’t undo my love for Lance.”

“I – I guess it’s possible to love someone else,” admitted Keith. “It still feels like a betrayal, you know? I know we’ve had our bonding moments, but it feels like I’m having an emotional affair, even though I know . . . he’s gone. My love for you won’t erase my love for him, but I just want to take things slow, plus you _are_ my teacher. This’d have to be secret.”

“What’s one more secret, eh? I can kept it, if you can!”

“Something special just between us, right?”

Keith smiled despite the situation. He looked to the baby and wondered about the long-term, especially as he thought himself far too young for a child, but – if it worked out – he knew this would be exactly what he needed to be happy in life. It would ground him and give him a sense of purpose, and the emotional support was exactly what he needed, so much so that he no longer felt the cravings to cut as strong as they once were in the weeks previous.

It would take time to fully heal, but Coran would be by his side. Keith looked across the gardens and wondered what it would be like to see them in winter, maybe in the years from now when the small trees grew into large oaks, and the few small weeks with Coran already felt like a distant dream, something unreal and yet so perfect. The breeze caught at his cheek, where he raised his hand and touched upon the spot where he was kissed. He smiled and thought to the future for the first time in longer than he dared count.

“Shiro and I always wanted kids, too,” admitted Keith.

Coran placed another kiss to his cheek; it was a gentle touch that provided infinite reassurance, as Keith smiled in return and turned to reciprocate, and – as their lips briefly touched – he felt a jolt of electricity course through him. Keith pulled back with a blush, as he looked back into the nursery. Coran gave a small chuckle, as he nudged Keith with his shoulder, and spoke in a clear and gentle voice:

“Let us be your family, Keith.”

* * *

The bed creaked.

Keith rolled over to look upon his lover. It was difficult to see in the darkness, although the constant glow from the baby monitor provided some soft light, and he could catch the scent of sex and sweat in the air heavy yet sensual. He basked in the glow, as the silk sheets draped over his body and provided a cool relief from the warmth. Keith smiled. There was a dull ache in his behind, familiar and yet unlike his time with Shiro, and he wanted more.

He listened to the sounds of the baby, along with Coran’s heavy breathing while he slept, and reached out to brush a stray lock of red hair from his face. Coran was a heavy sleeper. The older man was still flushed red from passion, with a few come stains within his thick chest hair, and there were a couple of bruises upon his upper arms from how hard Keith had clenched during his moment of ecstasy. Keith slid a little closer, as he half-closed his eyes and allowed sleep to slowly overtake him. The moment was perfect.

“I love you, Coran,” he whispered.

Keith placed a kiss to his lover’s lips. He lingered for a few seconds before he pulled back with soft laughter, and let his head fall upon the pillow. The past four weeks were everything he needed and everything he wanted, and finally he felt that the world would be good once again, as he found love with the most unexpected person. He knew that Coran would be busy soon, so these impromptu visits to his home would need to stop, but there would still be dates and kisses and stolen moments in his office. Keith fell gently to sleep with a smile.

* * *

‘You have reached Coran. I’m not here to answer the phone right now –’

Keith stabbed at the disconnect button.

The slab of plastic lay lifeless in his hand, as he glared at the screen. He heard his heart race in his ears, while his mouth ran dry, and he struggled to draw in enough breath to fight his anger and exhaustion. Keith leaned back against the wall, as he looked over to the staff room door with a narrowed gaze, and – as he folded his arms across his chest, teeth dug into his lip with great force – he feared that he had done something wrong.

It was cold within the Garrison. Keith felt every hair on his body raise upward, while he shivered and hopped from foot to foot, and he continuously looked to the doors in hope of seeing his lover reappear and explain his absence. He wanted to believe the best. He wanted to believe this kind of distance after making love was normal, but the truth was that Shiro had been his only other lover and there was no real relationship experience to drawn upon. Keith ran a hand through his hair and gripped tight, using the pain to ground himself.

“What are you doing here, Kogane?”

Keith looked up to see Iverson towering above him. The older man was dressed in his Instructors uniform; it was a brown ensemble, far more basic in design than the uniform that Allura and Coran wore, and it marked him as one of the few professors with actual military experience. He was a dark-skinned man with little hair, but he wore an intimidating expression that always silenced even the most loud-mouthed of cadets. Keith almost wished one of the non-military professors had been the one to find him. He disliked Iverson

“I was waiting for Coran, Sir,” said Keith.

“If you have a problem in any of your subjects, you can come to me any time,” replied Iverson in a strained voice. “If you’re having problems with your emotional issues, I can arrange for you to see the counsellor. Don’t worry about missing classes. I’ll write you a note and have all your work sent to you. You have our support, Cadet.”

“It’s – It’s not that, Sir. It was just that Coran was acting as my mentor. I’ve been going to him with my problems the past few weeks, and it’s helped a lot to feel like I have someone to turn to that’s not being _paid_ to listen to me. I just wanted to speak with him.”

“Well, that’ll be an issue. He’s not here today.”

“Why not? Where is he?”

Iverson glared down with his good eye. It would be enough to make other cadets back down, but Keith stood upright and lifted his chin high. They maintained eye-contact for a long few seconds, just enough that he knew his reaction would arouse suspicion, but he refused to be intimidated by a man whose source of authority was a uniform and a pay cheque. There was a bustle of activity from nearby, as a group of students ran past for the circular staircase, and their footsteps clattered upward to the first floor. Keith felt his heart race.

There was the sound of laughter from above, something incongruent to the tension, and the whirring of a vending machine that churned out item after item. It was a battle of wills. Iverson soon let out a long exhale of breath, as he looked toward the staff room doors and then back at the young student. He tapped at his arm a few times; it was a strange gesture of impatience, something that caused Keith to remain silent at the sight.

“It’s his husband’s birthday,” said Iverson.

Keith felt a stab of absolute guilt. He knew all too well the pain of various anniversaries, after having nearly drinking himself to death on Shiro’s birthday, and he lowered his head with a sense of shame, unable to reconcile his frustration with Coran’s suffering and grief. There would likely be flowers at the grave, followed by time with in-laws either online or in person, and it would be awkward to involve a new lover in time spend mourning the previous.

He looked down at the phone in his hand, as he made a mental note to send a word of apology later that day, once Coran had time to grieve and mourn. Iverson cleared his throat. It was enough for Keith to look his teacher in the eye, where he saw a narrowed gaze and pursed lips, and – for a brief second – he feared that his relationship with Coran had been uncovered. Keith looked away with a quick movement of his head, as he fought back a blush and rammed his phone deep into his pocket. He flinched when Iverson asked:

“Is that all, Kogane?”

“Yeah, I was just curious,” said Keith. “That’s all.”

“Good. Now get back to class.”

Iverson looked Keith up and down. He walked away. Keith watched the older man walk into the staff room, before the door slammed closed, and – now alone and with the reassurance of an explanation – he allowed his shoulders to sag in relief. There was still a stab of guilt, along with a shred of doubt, but he half-smiled to himself and headed to his next class with a slow and steady gait. The phone weighed heavy in his pocket, as he flexed his hands.

It was unlike Coran not to reply to a message, which caused grave concern. Keith barely noticed as he wandered into the classroom, taking a seat at the back from automatic response alone, and – as he looked down at the blackboard covered in words and diagrams – he realised he had lost time. The teacher at the front of the class was not Coran. Keith felt the loss of Shiro so keen in his heart, but now there was this devastating fear that Coran may have been lost in turn. It was illogical, but it was true. Keith swallowed hard.

The lecture passed by with little time. Keith looked down to a notebook empty of notes, as he realised he missed every single spoken word, and he saw a girl at the front of the class – short, glasses, wide grin – joking with an overweight guy that looked confused by the previous lesson. They looked so content. Keith envied them; he envied their friendship, just as he envied their sense of peace, and – most of all – he envied how they were not alone.

* * *

The blade was heavy in his hand.

Keith struggled to breathe, as tears rose to his eyes. The cuts on his wrist were clean, at least at first, until small specks of blood boiled to the surface, and soon a red line appeared almost as if being drawn by some unseen hand. It stung. It was a sharp pain that provided little relief, only enough to force him into the moment and give his mind something upon which to focus, and – as he hyperventilated – he pulled his wrist up to his chest.

He applied as much pressure as possible. The blood was warm on his chest, while he grew light-headed and the room began to spin, and – as the tears pricked hot in his eyes, he looked to his phone and saw no further messages. Keith remembered the news of Shiro’s death. He imagined the phone call that would come about Coran, explaining why he could no longer respond to him, and he knew that he could not endure the grief once again. He wept. The tears ran down his cheek, until he could no longer see. He gripped at the blade.

The metal cut lines into his palm. He didn’t notice the blood until he saw something red drip onto his bedroom carpet, followed by a dull pain that throbbed in time to his heart, and he chanced another look to his phone. Coran still hadn’t replied. The questions ran through his head, like a burning obsession, and no matter how much he cut the wounds wouldn’t stop that incessant voice. Keith fell back against the rough quilts and flat pillows.

“Please be okay,” he whispered. “Please, don’t leave me.”

He dropped the blade onto the sheets, as he rolled over into a curled position. He wrapped his bloody arms around bare legs, as he sobbed with great force and frustration, and he wondered whether Coran had harmed himself in his grief, much as Keith had done in his worse moments. The pain was intense. He struggled to stay conscious and fought the depression, as he tried to focus upon his phone. Coran would ring. He would ring! Keith needed to stay awake to answer . . . to comfort him . . . to make the pain stop.

* * *

Keith paused at the door.

Coran’s car was parked within the driveway; it was unusual to see it outside of the garage, especially with the heavy rain the past few days, and – in a moment of panic – Keith had checked inside the windows to make sure Coran was not unconscious. There was no carbon monoxide and no noticeable danger. Keith had lapped around the house once to be sure, in case Coran had fallen on the patio or passed out in the garden . . . nothing.

He let his hand linger on the doorknob. The door was unlocked, which meant someone was home, but no one answered the door or came to greet him. Keith struggled to hold back his tears, half-tempted to ring either Iverson or the police, but he couldn’t let anyone else find his lover should the worst have happened. The door pushed open with little effort. He wandered inside, closing the door behind him, and quickly made a sweep of the ground floor. There was something cooking in the kitchen, as the oven let loose a most delicious scent.

Keith opened the oven door.

It looked like some sort of casserole, but the meal was far from burned. Coran had to still be okay, or at least still within the time-frame to be saved, and – as Keith lowered the temperature and turned down the heat on a boiling pan – he noticed music playing low in the living room despite a lack of anyone in sight. He turned the music off. The only place left to explore was upstairs; Keith felt his stomach drop to his feet, as a wave of nausea swept over him, and he retched with great dry-heaves in his anxiety. There was something wrong.

“C-Coran?” Keith called.

He took the first step. It creaked under his weight, as he made his way up the staircase. A hand traced the polished banister on his way to the first floor, and – as he listened for any sign of life – he heard strange noises coming from the master bedroom. Keith knew the cries to be that of Coran. The instinctive part of him wanted to comfort his lover; he continued down the corridor, only to pause at the nursery and look inside to check on the baby.

The small boy was in his cot, with little fingers wrapped around his teddy bear. There was a blanket draped over him, patched with homemade designs, and he slept soundly with occasional snores or stirrings, completely oblivious to the pain of his father. Keith carried on down the corridor, until he reached the doors to the master bedroom. He paused. The door was only pushed half-closed, allowing a view of half the room, and – upon the far wall – he saw two sets of shadows. He heard two sets of voices. Keith felt faint.

“C-Coran?” Keith whispered.

Coran was not in pain, but in pleasure. The gasps and groans were typical of him during intercourse, while the loud cries and high-pitched keening was that of another, and the other person was vocal enough for them both. Keith could not yet believe the worst. There was likely a video being played, perhaps an old one of Lance and Coran, and – while it still felt every bit the betrayal – it was easier to understand than an actual affair. The noises merged with the scent of pollen and sweat, as the open balcony doors brought in a breeze.

It was difficult to find strength. Keith pushed open the doors with the tips of his fingers. There – against the railing on the balcony – stood Coran naked and in his glory, with buttocks still somewhat firm on full display, and he clearly rutted into the body of a younger man who offered his buttocks to him and leaned upon the railing with two sweaty hands. Keith ran cold. The dread was beyond anything he felt. The betrayal was unbearable.

He stepped forward into the bedroom, where he realised the truth: this was Lance. The man who cried out – who reached behind to grip orange hair – was the supposedly ‘dead’ husband, and he was so flawless and unblemished that Keith hated him. He hated this man for having what was promised to him. Keith went numb. He heard his heart race, loud in his ears like a broken drum, and his eyes locked upon the body of Coran. He continued to step forward until he was only a few feet behind them, close enough to reach out.

“You – You said he was dead,” whispered Keith.

Lance cried out. Coran pulled out with a curse, as he flung himself back against the railing. An old hand shot down to cover his erect penis, while his free hand flung itself out to force distance between Keith and himself, and – as he swore and cursed – Lance ran across the room and grabbed hastily at the blankets of the bed. There was the sound of fabrics rustling to cover that slender and Cuban frame, while Coran stuttered and struggled to formulate a sentence. Keith stepped onto the balcony. He wept.

The world around him was impossible to comprehend. Lance cried and shouted, demanding to know who he was and why he was there, while the baby cried in the adjacent nursery, and Coran – still panicked – looked between husband and mistress, desperate to try and appease both without any real knowledge how best to calm them. The screams continued. They bled together. They became an inferno of noise, a cacophony of sound . . .

Keith pushed Coran.

There was total silence, as time stood still. He acted out of instinct, only realising his actions too late, and – as Coran looked to him with eyes wide in shock and betrayal – he saw that naked body slip and fall backwards, over the railing and down below. Keith stepped forward, watching him fall and fall and fall for an eternity, until he stopped falling and landed upon the cold and hard patio. There was a loud sound. There was blood.

Lance screamed.


End file.
